Page 3 of Worlds Apart
“Right,” Errol said. “Six flying in tomorrow?”
“Yes.” He reached for the white polo with theKaranja Safari Camplogo on the pocket. “It’s Ethel’s year again.”
“Is it?” Errol’s voice came from the living area. “I missed the old girl. Which birthday is it now?”
Martin pulled on a pair of khaki cargo pants and walked from the bathing area into the living room. “Eighty-seven this year.” He smiled. “This will be her third safari with us.”
Errol was standing at the electric kettle, dropping two teabags into Karanja Safari mugs. “She still a firecracker?”
Errol Carberry watched the kettle with a devotion inherited from his British forebears. He was third generation British Kenyan and as devoted to the land and the tourism industry as Martin was. Unlike Martin, he was regularly unshaven, averse to any life outside of the camp, and more willing to speak to a hungry lioness than a banker.
Martin sat in a chair next to his desk and reached for the basket of socks he’d tucked underneath. “According to Alice, Ethel asked that we pair her with a different guide this year because the first two were too cautious.”
Errol looked up with wide eyes. “Didn’t she ride with Kapen last trip?”
“Yes, and he says he won’t guide her again. She tried to climb down the riverbank last time to get a better picture of the hippos.”
Errol let out a long breath and poured boiling water over the tea. “God save us from Ethel.” He looked around Martin’s tent. “Why do you have the coolest tent in the camp?”
“Because it’smine.”
“Mine too,” Errol muttered. “At least thirty percent of it is.” He took the two cups of tea and handed one to Martin before it could finish steeping.
Martin pulled on socks and reached for the mug. “I’m also the one who has to meet with investors, officials, and bankers when they come for their free stay in the Mara.”
“Never mind, you can have the big tent.”
Because of his role as the majority owner and public face of Karanja Safaris, Martin’s tent was far more than the typical staff housing at the camp.
Most employee tents consisted of a bedroom tent, a shared bathroom, and a shared living space. Martin’s sprawling compound had an office, a meeting room with a large dining table, and two bedrooms with private baths. There was a raised wooden porch outside that overlooked the western horizon for the best sunset viewing and a clear window over his bed so he could see the stars.
It paid to be the boss.
He’d offered to let Errol have the other bedroom, but his partner preferred life a little more rugged with lots of privacy for the occasional dalliance with an attractive female guest or passing biologist. He’d built himself a small house next to the water tower on a temporary platform that lifted it into the trees. It was primitive, but it felt like an upgraded treehouse and had the best views of the sunset.
By agreement with their Maasai landlords, no permanent structures could be built anywhere on the property, except those necessary for maintaining equipment. No houses, offices, or bungalows allowed. It was a safari camp without fences or barriers to the wild.
Which in lion country meant they also employed a lot of armed guards.
“So if Ethel isn’t content with Kapen” —Errol sipped his tea— “then who are we sending her with? He’s our best spotter.”
“I thought I could try asking Mingati.”
Errol raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“He likes me.”
“Just because he’s slightly less of an arse to you doesn’t mean that he likes you.”
“He’s not an arse if you don’t force him to be friendly.” Martin’s Maasai wasn’t nearly as good as Errol’s, but Mingati spoke fluent Swahili as well as Maasai. The old man refused to speak English—though he understood every word—and wasn’t the most friendly wildlife spotter in the area, so he didn’t work much.
He was grumpy, anti-social, and able to track a leopard at noon.
Martin shrugged. “You can’t deny that he knows the country.”
“Mingati is the best spotter I’ve ever met, but he’s a nightmare with guests,” Errol said. “He spat on that woman from France, remember?”
“He said it was an accident.”
